


Safe Space

by destroythemeek



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Don't Ask Don't Tell, F/M, Gen, M/M, Military, Multi, Pre-Canon, Queer Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destroythemeek/pseuds/destroythemeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lt. Col. Maes Hughes tries to do what he can for those who don’t quite fit in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Space

**Author's Note:**

> Written with the encouragement and beta help of the fabulous likeadeuce/karabair, who made me turn this passing idea into a real fic. This fic assumes at least a DADT equivalent in the Amestrian military, if not a complete ban on gay soldiers. Warning for incidences of homophobia and homophobic slurs, though they're brief.

It started with Major Armstrong.

Hughes was attending his first regional briefing as a newly-minted lieutenant colonel, trying his best not to fall asleep in his metal folding chair as the reports wore on and on. After the budget update and the rundown of criminal and subversive activity in the region over the past month, the brigadier general in charge moved on to his last agenda item, tacking a photograph of a man's face on the cork-board.

Hughes immediately recognized the distinctive grin and forelock of Alex Louis Armstrong, a man he’d known since prep school.

“Major Armstrong is being transferred to our region,” the brigadier general announced, his voice laden with thinly-veiled disgust. “It's been decided that we need another alchemist in our neck of the woods.” He looked out at the crowd. “Now who wants him?”

The room filled with whispers as the officers let that information sink in. “Coward faggot,” the colonel next to Hughes muttered. He wasn't the only one.

Hughes knew the stories about Armstrong during the war: how he'd broken down on the battlefield, cradling a dying child in his arms, and condemned the whole Ishbalan extermination enterprise. Had he been a member of any other Amestrian family, he would have been court-martialed on the spot, but that sort of thing didn’t happen to Armstrongs. The military never promoted him past his wartime rank, but they never reprimanded him either, looking the other way just as they looked the other way when it came to his rumored proclivities.

Hughes hadn’t been in a position to even consider the choices that Armstrong had. He’d had a girl at home to think about, a future career to preserve, a family name that only held cachet if he extended its legacy of perfect soldiers. But unlike the rest of his cohort, he respected the hell out of Armstrong for making the choices he couldn’t.

“I’ll take him, sir,” Hughes said, barely bothering to raise his hand. The ambient murmur turned to a note of surprise. “I’m the rookie here, right?” he pointed out. “Call it hazing.”

“All right,” the brigadier general said, noting the information on his clipboard. “Major Armstrong will report to Lieutenant Colonel Hughes in Investigations.” He looked at Hughes over his glasses. “Brave man.”

Hughes knew he hadn’t been a brave man. But maybe he could start to change that.

~*~

Hughes met Second Lieutenant Maria Ross in the field. An officer had been killed in a bar fight by an unknown assailant on the outskirts of Central, and Hughes arrived with a small team to relieve Lieutenant Colonel Newport from Peacekeeping. When the peace refused to be kept, it was Hughes' job to step in and figure out why. But Newport was still at the crime scene when Hughes arrived, his subordinates working to contain the scene and preserve the evidence.

“You can use my team if you want,” Newport said, gesturing at the soldiers scurrying about the taped-off area around the body. He was around Hughes' age, tall and old money blond, the kind of man who had been handed his good fortune from the moment he was born. He was not Hughes' favorite person in the world, and not just because he'd gone to a rival prep school.

“I wouldn't want to overwork them,” Hughes said pointedly. Newport didn't look like he'd so much as leaned over the body, much less analyzed the evidence. The men and women in his unit were sweating through their uniforms.

“Oh, please. They're fine.”

Hughes shook his head and walked over to a small woman with lieutenant's stripes and short black hair. “Hey.” He stuck out a hand as the woman looked up, saw his stripes and fumbled a salute. “Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes, Investigations. Nice to meet you. Can I ask your name?”

“Second Lieutenant Maria Ross, sir.” Her face looked stricken, anxious, like an interaction with a superior officer was bound to result in disaster. “And this is my partner, Sergeant Denny Brosh.” She motioned to a man with floppy blond hair and a magnifying glass, using the gesture to avoid Hughes' proffered handshake.

“Thank you, lieutenant,” Hughes said, lowering his hand. He had no interest in making the woman uncomfortable. “Since you're the one doing all the work here, I was wondering if you could answer some questions about what you've seen so far. If you don't mind.”

“Oh, of course I don't mind,” Ross said, looking a bit more relaxed, and she settled into her report. As she finished reciting the rote details, she added, almost cautiously, “One more thing. When we first arrived, I noticed this on the ground near the body.” She picked up a small button with a handkerchief and showed it to Hughes. “It’s likely our assailant lost it in the fight.”

Hughes took the handkerchief and the button and peered at it through his glasses. Its surface was speckled with blood. “A common enough button. You could find it on half the jackets owned by men in this bar.”

“Right,” Ross said. “That’s what I thought at first, too. But look at the back.” Hughes obediently flipped the button over. Below the metal loop, the letters “GX” were engraved. “It’s monogrammed,” Ross explained. “And I don’t think those initials are all that common.”

“Excellent work, Lieutenant,” Hughes said with a smile. “Excellent, excellent work. I’ll be sure to pass along my compliments to your commanding officer.”

“That’s… that’s not necessary,” Maria stuttered, and added, more confidently, “A soldier always does her best work without expectation of reward.”

“Nonsense,” Hughes replied. “You should always be commended for a job well done.”

After the investigation was concluded and the culprit (one Gordon Xavier) nabbed, Hughes reported back to Newport with the results. “Your team did a fine job,” he said. And then, as he’d promised, he added, “Second Lieutenant Ross especially. She's got a keen mind for detective work.”

“Ha,” Newport said, smirking. Hughes was not at all sure what was funny. “Yeah, sure. For all the good it's gonna do her in this army.”

“What do you mean?” Hughes asked carefully. “Has she been passed over for promotion?”

Newport laughed again. “Oh, don't tell me you're as oblivious as Brosh is, following her around like a fucking puppy dog, barking up the wrong damn tree. Can't you tell by looking at her?”

Hughes was beginning to get an idea of what Newport meant. “I don't see how that has anything to do with her qualifications,” he said tersely. His sudden flush of anger was more intense than he’d expected.

“Hey, I don't make the regs; I just follow them,” Newport replied, with the unconcerned voice of the very rich. “And the second I catch her stepping out of line, she's out of here.”

“Why don't you let me take her off your hands, then?” Hughes asked. He hadn't thought the plan all the way through, but in that moment he knew it was the only ethical thing he could do. Maria Ross had the makings of a fine investigative officer, and Hughes had, after all, made himself a promise to be braver. “I get a brilliant detective, and you get to avoid that mountain of potential paperwork in your future,” he reasoned. “Win win.”

Newport raised an eyebrow. “They always said you were a little cracked, back at the Academy.” He shook his head. “But sure, why the hell not? I'll start the transfer papers.”

“Great,” Hughes said. He had a feeling she’d fit in just fine.

~*~

Hughes didn’t have to look for his third recruit -- he came to Hughes of his own volition. By that time Hughes was finally beginning to settle into his role as lieutenant colonel, delegating boring tasks to his men and women and spearheading all the most exciting field missions himself. Ross was settling in, too, as was Brosh, who she’d insisted on bringing along (“He’d fall apart without me,” she’d explained. “And he’s a hard worker, I promise.”) Armstrong was histrionic as ever, weeping openly at even the most minor tragedies and terrifying witnesses with his hugs, but Hughes had to admit that his alchemy came in handy. And best of all, Hughes had just found out that his wife, Gracia, was going to have a baby. Life was pretty damn good.

Then a kid appeared in his office. He couldn’t have been more than 19, a green recruit with thick glasses and dark skin and hair who probably still remembered every detail of basic training. “Corporal Lockheed, sir,” he said, saluting bashfully. His voice was deeper than Hughes would have expected. “I’ve come to request a transfer to your unit.”

Hughes looked at the kid over the top of his glasses. “Oh? Do you have a special interest in Investigations?”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant Colonel, sir. I mean – I don’t know a lot about it, sir. But I’d be willing to learn.”

Hughes raised an eyebrow. “You have a special interest in something you don’t know much about?”

Lockheed cringed. “Well, sir. It’s more that I want to be able to work with you, sir. Everyone speaks very highly of you.”

Hughes knew that to be true. He was a well-liked man; he always had been. But there was no reason his good-natured attitude should have earned him any kind of wide-ranging recognition. He was still barely more than a major, and not a rich and eccentric one like Armstrong. He peered at the kid, wondering what his angle could be. What was going on in his current unit that made him so eager to leave that he’d risk knocking on a stranger’s door?

Hughes stood up, crossed the room, and closed the door. “Corporal, why don’t you tell me why you really came here?”

Lockheed swallowed, his eyes darting left and right before finally settling on down. “I heard a rumor, sir. That you take people no one else will take. People like Major Armstrong.”

Like Armstrong. Hughes forcibly restrained himself from jumping to conclusions. “Alchemists?” he guessed.

“Ah, no, sir. People who...” He sucked in a deep breath. “People whose private lives, however discreet, might not meet the military’s approval.”

Hughes nodded carefully, considering. He tried not to give away too much. “How widespread is this rumor you heard?”

“Oh, not very!” Lockheed said. “I only heard from one friend, and the people he heard it from are good at keeping secrets. I don’t want to cause you any trouble, sir. It’s just that, if it’s true, well. This uniform means a lot to me. I don’t want to have to give it up. And my commanding officer, I think she might already suspect…”

Hughes nodded again, the wheels beginning to turn in his head. Until now he’d been content to find his team of misfits on a case-by-case basis, picking them up in kismet situations. But if the rumors were already circulating underground, perhaps Hughes could do something to push that along. Encourage it. He couldn’t take everyone, of course. But for the select few, he could make life a little easier.

Hughes was beyond reproach – third generation military, with a wife he couldn’t stop bragging about and a baby on the way. But in another world, if his life had taken a few different turns, Hughes knew he could have been in shoes very similar to Corporal Lockheed’s. Condemning the war wasn’t the only choice of Armstrong’s that Hughes had made differently. But this was the real world, the world he had created with the sum of his decisions and experiences, and in this world he was in a position to make a difference in a few lives. If he didn’t do all he could, how would he ever look at himself in the mirror again?

“All right, Corporal Lockheed. I’ll take you on, if you promise me one thing.”

“Anything, sir.”

“Spread the word. Whatever underground connections you have, let them know. My team isn’t big, but for those who need help, my doors are open.”

~*~

When Elysia was five months old, Hughes and Gracia drove to the square outside the President’s Palace for the state-wide promotion ceremony that would raise Hughes’ best friend, Roy Mustang, to the rank of Colonel. Hughes found it difficult to leave his baby girl alone, even in capable hands, and Gracia gently chided him when he tried to stuff his pockets with all of the pictures of Elysia that he could carry. “This ceremony is for Roy,” Gracia had pointed out, as she made the final arrangements for her sister to watch the baby. “It wouldn’t be very polite of you to spend the whole time showing his colleagues your photos.” In the end, they’d compromised: Hughes would only bring along the five best shots he had. He was too proud of Elysia to carry anything less.

Pride, in fact, was the order of the day. Hughes was proud of his daughter, proud of his wife, and extremely proud of his team. Since his first meeting with Corporal Lockheed, he’d gained several more soldiers, including Master Sergeant Brewster, a small, round-faced woman who had taken up the front desk position at headquarters and liked to reprimand Hughes for his personal phone calls. Not all of his soldiers were queer – Brosh was still around, as were several soldiers who had been with that unit since before Hughes had been instated. But whenever a position opened up, Hughes made sure to fill it with someone who could use a little extra security, community, and protection. Only one of the new soldiers had left his unit – a Second Lieutenant Catalina, who had gone on to work for Lieutenant General Grumman in the east to be closer to her family – and morale among the others was high.

And now Hughes was standing in a bustling square holding his wife’s hand, filled with an additional burst of pride for his best friend, who was rising through the ranks faster than anyone with no money or connections should have been able to do. While he watched the ceremony, with all its accompanying fanfare, speeches, and music, Hughes didn’t even reach for his photos. Other than a brief conversation catching up with Lieutenant Catalina, who was attending the ceremony to support her friend, the newly-promoted First Lieutenant Hawkeye, Hughes kept his attention rapt and respectful from start to finish.

Afterward, Gracia greeted Roy with a peck on the cheek and a warm congratulations, then squeezed Hughes’ hand and stepped away with a knowing wink. When she was gone, Hughes pulled Roy into a bone-crushing hug that rumpled his hair and uniform coat. “Congratulations. You realize, of course, that I’ll have to catch up with you now, to push you further up that ladder.”

Roy tried to look disapproving as he adjusted his hair (not that it wasn’t messy to begin with), but he couldn’t hide his smile. “You go ahead and try. I’ll be keeping my eye on the endgame.”

The endgame. Roy was going to be Fuhrer, come hell or high water.

“You should at least be able to hire some more staff now,” Hughes pointed out. “Help you keep up with all of that paperwork.” A full colonel had more hiring discretion than a lieutenant colonel.

“Oh, please don’t remind me,” Roy groaned. “I hate personnel hunting.”

“Isn’t your main job finding alchemists?”

“Alchemists are fine,” Roy argued. “At least they’re _interesting_. But how am I supposed to figure out which of five identical candidates will take dictation the best? How do _you_ find staff?”

Hughes paused, looking for a double meaning in Roy’s words. Surely he had to know. The Roy that Hughes had known in the Academy would have known. That was the Roy who had taught Hughes all about the underground bars and dance halls and the pocketwatch codes used as signals by men in public places -- alternating fingers looped over and under the chain. How could he not know this?

“Oh, well. I’ve been lucky so far. People tend to come to me, after hearing through the grapevine about the… kind of person I am.” Hughes looked at Roy meaningfully.

“Of course,” Roy whined. “You’re _nice_. The good ones _want_ to work with you.” His eyes betrayed nothing; they didn’t return Hughes’ meaningful gaze. And that’s when it became clear: he didn’t know. He hadn’t heard about the open arms of the Central Headquarters Investigative Unit. Somehow, somewhere along the line, their positions had switched when it came to the queer underground. Hughes thought of the stories he’d heard about Roy out East, of his endless dates with a different woman every night. It wasn’t that Roy hadn’t gone out with girls before, and liked it quite a bit. But it had never been so excessive, and he’d always had those other ties as well, ties he’d now evidently cut. Roy, Hughes realized, was overcompensating as much as any of Hughes’ soldiers had, if not more. But Hughes couldn’t protect him like he protected them.

“Must be it,” Hughes agreed, trying to laugh off the tension and disappointment. “Lighten up a little, grow some facial hair, and you, too, can have a perfect staff.”

“I’m never going to be you, Hughesie,” Roy said with a lopsided grin, squeezing Hughes’ arm. Hughes felt a rush of warmth as old and familiar as one of his prep school sweaters, remembering all the secret touches he and Roy used to share in the hallways of the Academy, and he felt the sudden urge to kiss him, to decisively tear down the walls Roy was building up and Hughes was slowly breaking down. Gracia knew everything; Gracia would understand.

But he knew that Roy was right. He was never going to be Hughes. He was going to be Fuhrer. He was going to push everything aside – including any connection to a community he would, in a better world, have been a part of – to reach that goal. All Hughes could do, as a friend, was help him along.

Hughes, however, was never going to be Fuhrer. He was just going to be Hughes: a mid-ranking officer with good intentions. And that meant he’d have to make his mark in smaller ways. More human ways. Like putting together a team of people who could be safe and open, if only in one small space.

“Well, if you’re not too busy, future Mr. President,” Hughes said, changing the subject abruptly. He was going to enjoy his friend’s company while he could. “Why don’t you take a look at some of these pictures of my baby?”

~*~

Hughes and Gracia had just celebrated Elysia’s first half-birthday a few days earlier (you could never have enough parties to honor such a perfect little angel) when Maria Ross slipped into his office, closing the door behind her.

“Lieutenant Colonel. Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Hughes couldn’t help being surprised. Ross might have warmed up to her fellow soldiers, but she and Hughes had rarely interacted one-on-one. She’d been on the team for almost two years, but she still carried about her an aura of fear when it came to addressing her superiors.

She looked much less afraid now, though. Hughes hoped that was a good thing.

“Granted, Lieutenant. What’s on your mind?”

“Why do you do it?”

“Excuse me?” Hughes took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with his shirttails before replacing them.

“This team. We all know what you’re doing, even if you’re pretty good at hiding it from everyone else. And it’s not that we don’t appreciate it. I just don’t understand. You’re always talking about your wife and daughter, and if you’re… that is to say, it doesn’t seem quite fair to your wife if…”

Hughes held up a hand to stop her. “I love my wife more than life itself. That’s not even a question. Have I shown you a picture lately? I have some right here. I swear she gets more beautiful every day.” He began rummaging through the middle drawer of his desk.

“No, no!” Ross said, waving her hands frantically in front of her. Hughes felt slightly disappointed. “I believe you,” Ross assured him. "I didn’t really think… But then why are you doing this?”

Hughes closed his drawer and regarded Lieutenant Ross seriously. He’d somehow managed to avoid having this conversation with any of his subordinates. But wasn’t it inevitable? Wasn’t he trying to create a country, and a military, where openness and honesty were possible? Wasn’t it hypocritical of him to pretend he was just a concerned outsider, when his meeting with Roy had reminded him just how much he wasn’t?

“I said I love my wife, Lieutenant. I didn’t say she was the only person I’d ever loved.”

Silence held court while Ross processed his words. Finally she nodded. “Of course. I’m sorry I made assumptions.”

“It’s quite all right. I value this kind of open dialogue.” He smiled to show he meant it, beyond the ironic quoting of management seminars.

“Did that other relationship… end poorly?” she hazarded, as if she wasn’t sure of the line between curiosity and prying but was desperate to figure out her boss’s full motivations.

Hughes let a bittersweet smile cross his lips. “He found his ambition. I found Gracia. We both have what we need.”

Lieutenant Ross bit her lip. “Oh.”

“It’s all right. I have a wonderful wife and an amazing daughter, and it’s because of them I’m able to do what I’m doing. Maybe I can help make a world where ambitions would never be thwarted by something as innocuous as love.” He shrugged. “That’s the goal, anyway.”

Ross nodded solemnly. “You’re a good man, Lieutenant Colonel.”

Hughes shrugged again. “I do what I can. Now get back to work, soldier.”

Ross saluted. “Yes sir!”

When she left, Ross left the door open behind her, and Hughes could see into the main office from his desk. At reception, Armstrong was loudly detailing a particularly implausible Armstrong Family Legend to the politely baffled audience of Master Sergeant Brewster. Lockheed was at his desk, going over paperwork with Brosh while they sipped twin cups of coffee and greeted the returning Second Lieutenant Ross. The home office was sparsely populated today, but that only meant that others were out in the field, doing important work, including two enlisted men gathering witness interviews who Hughes was fairly certain had just started dating each other.

They were all stressed, a little overworked, but they were comfortable with each other. Amidst those papers and filing cabinets and clacking typewriters, no one felt the need to hide.


End file.
